Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [138]
The Forest Kingdom was still strong. Whoever warmed the throne or this or that high lord’s chair might change, but the kingdom would endure.
Which meant a certain Sage of Shadowdale could take the items that held the survivors of the Nine for Alassra. Cormyr would get along just fine without them.
Lord Arclath Delcastle stopped, put his hands on his hips, and sighed in exasperation.
He had arisen early this fine bright morning, checked that his slumbering guest was still sleeping—they had talked late into the night but had slept apart, Arclath showing her his private pantry and sideboard and that she could lock herself in with them, and had heard her promptly do so—taken a quick breakfast of spiced plover’s eggs and hearth cakes, thrown on some suitably dandified finery, given his trusted servants firm instructions to render all reasonable aid to Amarune and to do so with respect, and taken himself off to the palace.
He had two tasks to discharge there, the lesser concerning himself and the greater concerning the news Amarune had agreed that the war wizard Glathra should hear, without delay.
His personal business was the same as many of the lesser nobles of the realm this morning. He sought to learn where his seat at council would be and which particular courtier he should look for on the day to escort him to his seat.
In Arclath’s case, this lesser task also involved conveying his mother’s regrets; she of course would not be attending, and was in fact sending Arclath in her stead, while his father was too drunk to even know there was a council.
His more pressing task—to report to the wizard Glathra that the mask dancer Amarune, the Silent Shadow, had just learned that she was the great-granddaughter of the infamous wizard Elminster, who was lurking in Suzail at that moment and wanted her to steal particular magic items for him that held the ghosts of the legendary Nine—would have been much easier if Arclath had been able to find Glathra.
Not that any of the wizards of war he collared seemed to know where she might be found, stlarn them.
The whole palace was in an uproar that morning, everyone rushing about terribly busy with council-related security requirements, servant deployments, and furniture rearrangements. Both the sprawling royal court and the majestic royal palace were a noisy bedlam of hurrying, calling, feverishly working folk; every last chambermaid and page seemed swept up in it all.
He was growing tired of holding his own hips. He’d much rather have his hands on Rune’s, and—
Enough. Banish that thought until he could do something about it.
Drawing a deep breath, Lord Arclath Delcastle squared his shoulders, put a “no nonsense, please” frown on his face, and marched forward into the tumult.
He knew a few senior war wizards by sight, and surely some of them must be there in the palace. He’d just keep going until he found one and ask for Glathra until he found someone who—
“Hold, saer!”
Arclath sighed. The challenges were going to come frequently that morning, by the looks of things. He gave the Purple Dragon guard barring his way with horizontal-held spear a patient smile, and began, “Fair morn to you, Telsword. I’m looking for Wizard of War Glathra …”
The man scowled, instantly suspicious. “And just why d’you want to see her, Lord?”
Oh, it was going to be a long morning.
In a dark passage deep beneath the palace, Elminster came to a halt and cursed softly. On the wall ahead hung an old shield he’d watched Vangerdahast enspell, far more years earlier than he cared to remember. Its enchantments made it a silent warning of certain